A Time to Heal
by RealFunkyTown
Summary: AU tag to 'Sam, Interrupted'. Dean doesn't get out of the hospital and is trapped with his memories of hell. While the hospital staff attempts to save him, Dean realizes that he is not the only one at the hospital threatened with ghosts of the past.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:Contains general spoilers through mid Season 5 up to 'Sam, Interrupted'. You do not have to have seen the episode for the story to make sense, but it of course helps.

Written for a prompt at the hoodie_time Dean focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme. The request was for an AU tag to 'Sam, Interrupted' where Dean just barely gets Sam out of the hospital after killing the wraith, but doesn't make it out himself. Dean has a very bad reaction to the medication that he's given, bringing back the memories of hell full force, and the hospital staff try to help him cope.

This story does contain hell flashbacks with graphic imagery/torture.

* * *

_Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital - Ketchum, Oklahoma_

With the wraith's influence no longer hanging over them it should have felt like a veil had been lifted. Instead Dean just felt the full weight of reality come crashing back down. He suddenly got why Martin preferred crazy. Crazy was easy.

Surrendering to insanity would be a hell of a lot easier than he and Sam running back out to get their asses once again handed to them. No matter what they did, they weren't going to win. Neither would say it aloud, but they both knew it. Running back towards certain defeat made them the truly crazy ones.

If they instead retreated into themselves they could forget about the whole damn apocalypse, let the angels sort it out. Good in theory, but that would just release another floodgate of nasty. Locking himself up inside his own mind would barely be a step up from hell because Dean carried his own piece of hell inside him. Always would. He pushed it down, ignored it, denied it – whatever it took to make it through one more day, but it was always just below the surface. And it wasn't just hell. It was everything.

No matter how much it hurt at least when they were out there fighting he could delude himself into feeling like he was doing something. In the heat of battle he could forget. Sometimes he could even forget that he knew the fight was futile and that he was useless.

Aside from starting an apocalypse there apparently wasn't anything he couldn't screw up and he couldn't stop what was coming. He couldn't really save anyone. Like his personal delusion had said, he couldn't even save himself. That didn't matter. There was no way out of this fight aside from surrender and even then it wouldn't be over. He couldn't even die. The only choice was to keep fighting.

"Dean, come on!"

His eyes shot up to meet Sam's anxious face. Another hard hit from reality. They had all of a minute, if that, to find a way out of here and hit the road before they were given a permanent padded suite.

"Right. Let's go."

Without further hesitation, Dean followed Sam out of the blindingly white room. None of the hospital staff was yet in view, but the sound of rushed footsteps approaching reverberated through the hallway. That answered the question of which way to go.

A quick glance between them silently confirmed the plan before he and Sam took off in the direction opposite of the footsteps. For the first time he was grateful to be wearing these stupid hospital slippers instead of his usual clunky boots. The slippers made him feel naked, but at least the things did a decent job of dampening the sound of his feet hitting the ground.

They took a sharp turn to get out of view of the main hallway and ran headlong into an orderly. Dean skidded to a stop, almost slamming into Sam's back. The orderly obviously hadn't been planning an ambush because the man looked shocked before quickly composing himself.

"Hey, just calm down there," the man told them in a tone usually reserved for toddlers. "You're alright. I'm just going to get you some help, okay?"

"Actually, we're fine, thanks," Dean replied.

The man nodded slowly. "Sure you are, buddy. Just take it easy. Over here! I got..."

The orderly's call to the other staff members was cut short when Sam's fist caught the guy hard in the jaw. It was too late. The quick footsteps they'd heard a moment ago became pounding strides as the reinforcements closed in on them. They should be running like hell, but Sam was standing there staring between his still clenched fist and the poor sap crumpled on the ground.

"He's fine," Dean hissed to his brother. "Move it!"

Dean wasn't worried about the doctors getting a hold of him. He could talk his way out of anything. It was Sam he was worried about. There was a body back in that room and Sam was already a violent offender in this hospital's book. If the doctors got a hold of his brother there was no telling where they would take Sam.

Worse yet, if Sam was kept doped up with that happy juice the doctors had been shooting his brother up with earlier, Sam would be saying yes to Lucifer with a sloppy grin on his face. It would all be over without his brother even realizing what happened.

He pushed Sam ahead of him and shot a glance over his shoulder just in time to see the nurses turning the corner towards them. They'd found an exit at the end of the hall, but the doctors were too close. Sam didn't seem to notice and Dean used that to his advantage.

Closing the last bit of distance to the fire exit, he shoved open the door and let Sam run through ahead of him. Dean stopped just short of following his brother out. It only took Sam a split second to realize that Dean was no longer behind him.

There wasn't enough time for words. Dean could only catch Sam's confused eyes long enough to silently lie that he knew what he was doing, that this was all part of the imaginary plan. Without waiting for Sam's protest, Dean pulled the door closed again, shutting himself in the hallway just as the small team of nurses and orderlies overtook him.

Dean didn't fight them, not really. Instead he only struggled to hold his ground so that he could block the door long enough for Sam to get the hell away from here. He had a lot of practice blocking doors, though usually he was trying to keep things out, not in. It was surprisingly easy only because the orderlies that were grabbing for him weren't his usual combatants.

If he pulled this stunt against anything else on his brother's tail he would be dead by now or at least a seriously bloody pulp. But these guys were trying to yank him away without hurting him, which just let him buy all the more time for his brother. By the time he felt the sting of a needle jab into his bicep he had to hope that he'd held them off for long enough.

A moment later the hallway seemed to sway. Dean's eyes blinked rapidly as his mind struggled desperately to focus. Instead it just went blank. He took a staggered step away from the door before collapsing limply into the arms of the orderlies.

-----

The room around Dean slowly came into focus. He squinted against the harsh light of the fluorescents that only exasperating his throbbing headache. Vaguely he noted that people were staring at him like he was some animal at the zoo, but he couldn't initially remember why or where Sam was. Sam.

Suddenly Dean shot up in the bed, or tried to. A gentle hand pressed against his chest easing him back down against the mattress. It was just gentle enough that he didn't grab the wrist and break it before bolting out the door. Instead he tentatively took the silent suggestion of remaining in bed, at least until he could figure out where the bed was.

His brow furrowed in confusion as he visually searched the room for a familiar face and didn't find one. Dean's eyes settled on the man sitting in a chair beside his bed. Gradually it came. Doctor Fuller. Wraith. Mental hospital. Sam got out and Dean got the drugs, but not the good ones. He gave a disgruntle sigh and settled back into his pillow. His eyes closed to stave off the wave of dizziness that the abrupt attempt to sit up had caused.

"Eddie, we know what happened with Nurse Erma."

Once the nausea passed he wanted to ask who the hell Eddie was, but the doctor was obviously talking to him and he was too tired to care what the guy called him.

"Uh...you do?" he asked tentatively, more unsure of his own voice than anything else.

Dean's groggy mind grasped desperately to attach the name Erma to a face. When he did he cringed. It was a damn ugly face. If he never saw another wraith again it would be too soon.

"Yes. We know you tried to release Alex and Nurse Erma walked in. Alex became aggressive and killed her."

"He did?"

He'd killed the wraith so who the hell was Alex?

"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known that would happen. I know things are very confusing right now, but we have a treatment that is going to help you."

Dean's eyes opened and he glared critically at the doctor. "You've got me confused with someone else. There's nothing wrong with me."

"I understand that you believe that, but you're going to have to trust me. Once your medication begins to take effect, you'll see, everything will be much clearer. We'll talk again soon, same time tomorrow."

In the blink of an eye the hospital room was replaced by a more familiar setting. Starkly white walls contorted into towers of bleached bones melded together with discarded, mutilated flesh. His nostrils burned at the heavy, sulfuric scent laced with scorched flesh. The screams tore at his eardrums. He screwed his eyes shut against the sensory assault.

"We'll see how you're feeling...Eddie?"

The words being said didn't register, it was only the voice that he heard. Nasally and assured, accompanied by a crooked, self amused grin on a gruesome, demonic face. The hands of the thing before him adeptly twirled an eternally sharpened razor smeared with his own blood.

When he tried to pull away a strong hand gripped his arm, forcing him back against the unusually soft rack. In an instant he was struck with something he'd never before felt in the heat of the pit. Hope. Somehow he just knew that in this moment he had a fighting chance of escape and he didn't hesitate to snatch that opportunity.

Dean's hand shot out to grab Alistair's arm. He swung the demon that was god here around with a crash into something Dean couldn't see beyond the edge of darkness that surrounded his currently limited vision. The pure sensation of liberation lasted for half a second before more hands grappled at him from the darkness, pulling him back into the depth.

----

Sweat rolled down Dean's glistening brow, stinging his already moistened eyes. The salty mixture of sweat and tears continued their trail down his discolored cheekbone, cutting a line through the caked blood splattered there.

The razor gouged deeper, so deep there was nowhere left to go but back out the other side. Its wielder's arm pushed through the shredded remains of his chest, the blade scratching against his spine through the front of his dismantled ribcage. It was what qualified as a tickle these days but brought a pain vastly more intense than anything the human body was capable of experiencing on earth.

His head tipped back as if to cry out, but he'd lost the voice to scream. He'd already eaten his useless lungs. There were plenty of others damned bastards in the endless chasm still hollering for him. Their agonized cries and desperate pleas to end their own tortures were deafening, coming from nowhere and everywhere, but the unbearable sounds scarcely registered as even background noise anymore.

There was no end for any of them. He was the only one here with a choice. When the gore covered hand finally pulled back out through his split sternum, jarring nerve endings that actual human bodies didn't even possess, he was again asked to make that choice. The now deceptively gentle hand set on the remains of his flayed shoulder, which had been cauterized by the heat from the rack's searing metal.

In the next instant he was made to appear whole again, but the all consuming physical pain and the darker, empty pit inside remained as a reminder. The razor was presented to him, well within his reach. Moments earlier it had been slick with his blood and crusted with bits of his insides. Now it glistened, reflecting the light of the hot embers that engulfed everything in this place.

All he had to do was accept it and tomorrow he could keep his lungs. Tomorrow it wouldn't be him hollowed out, not physically. But they'd win and he knew what he would soon become - just another black eyed son of a bitch.

He lifted his head only enough to display his raw hazel eyes, a rebellious glare tensing his pained features. There was no need to speak it anymore. A sickly smile shone back at him.

"Same time tomorrow, then," the self-satisfied sneer of his torturer announced.

Dean ignored the jolly, singsong tone and instead focused on the fact that every day he didn't pick up that razor was another day that smug bastard didn't get what he wanted. It was only the slimmest of victories. He couldn't do this forever and it felt as if he already had.

His vision of smoldering flesh blurred when a sudden shock of light breached the darkness and bombarded his eyes. A hand again gripped his shoulder, pulling a startled gasp from him. For a moment he thought he remembered this. It was something seared on the back of his mind, but buried too deep to really make out.

A shiver rocked his body as the suffocating heat vanished. The glowing hot metal of the rack was replaced with a warm, but comparatively freezing surface that was nearly soft. Then he remembered.

His racing blood pounded in his ears, unable to move in the confines of the tight space just big enough for his body. Dean's finger's clawed desperately against rough pinewood he couldn't escape, lungs burning again, but this time from exertion and limited air.

He didn't want this, had never asked to be returned to his body. All he'd wanted was an end. He beat harder against the confines, his body too tight for his broken soul let alone the box being too small for his body. The claustrophobic panic dissipated only when he heard a distant voice. He wasn't here alone.

"Eddie, can you hear me?" The tone was gentle and foreign to his ears, which were still numbed from the cries of torment.

The reprieve he had foolishly expected was shattered when he again felt the tug of the restraints, softer this time but unquestionably there. A hand forced one of his forearms still. He tried to move his free arm but the cuffs dug at his wrist.

The drag of a razor down his exposed arm sent hot crimson welling to the surface, the blood seeping down his arm. He couldn't swallow down the cry as the cut of the razor moved over the newly healed flesh that still had all the nerves intact.

A hand set against his collarbone, fingers pressing against his neck before the hand slipped around his throat. The grip tightened, cutting off his air supply, his chest screaming painfully for the air that wouldn't come.

"His pulse is racing, breathing erratic. Eddie, I need you to calm down, can you do that for me?"

"It's Dean you sorry son of a bitch," he rasped. "Can't even remember who you're slicing on? Want my money back..."

"He's hallucinating. You need to listen to me."

"I won't...won't ever," he mumbled as well as his parched lips would allow. "Do what you want, but I'll never do this."

"Oh, but you will, son," a more familiar voice chimed in.

Dean tensed against the onslaught he knew was coming. When the white-hot pain scorched through him his back arched up off the soft surface beneath him, his lungs this time finding the air to raggedly scream. He collapsed back down, panting in exhaustion, tugging weakly at the restraints that held him place.

"We're going to need some sedative here!"

His mind couldn't process the words, but it didn't matter. A few moments later he found what he had been searching for – an end as it all finally bled to darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Nurse Mackenzie leaned in the doorframe of the patient's room, shaking her head to herself as she watched Eddie thrash desperately on the bed. She had been with the hospital for several years and had spent at least some time with nearly every patient who had come through the hospital's doors during that time. They ran the whole gambit.

There were a few that were essentially cationic, completely withdrawn from the physical word around them. Others possessed a borderline ability to communicate but had a blissful peace about them, lost enough in their own world to not care about the troubles of this one. Some were perpetually frustrated with just enough of a grasp on reality to know that they were ill. Many thought they were functioning individuals, but simply lacked a grasp on reality.

Like anyone else, now and then, many of them were afraid, both of things that were and weren't there. Occasionally some were prone to angry outbursts or fits of violence against themselves or others. She had thought that she had seen it all, but she had never seen anything like this. Never had she seen anyone hurting this badly.

The man restrained on that bed was not just a being exposed to frightening delusions. Real pain or at least the very clear memory of it contoured his otherwise handsome features. As she watched, his muscles tensed so rigidly that the contraction alone had to be painful. He was soaked in a cold sweat, gasping and flinching as if from some unseen attack. His heart rate and blood pressure were bordering on dangerously high and at this point vocal cord damage was becoming a very real concern.

At first the sound of his screaming had almost been deafening, echoing through the halls, along with calls for someone named Sam. Unfortunately they just did not have enough of a patient background to even know who Sam was. As the attacks continued his voice had grown ragged. The pure desperation was too much to bear hearing.

None of this made sense. There had not even been a question in his diagnosis. Other disorders were present, but the schizophrenia had clearly been the underlying cause and the medication should have alleviated the symptoms. Instead, if anything, his delusions were only growing more severe.

Slowly the tearful cries dissolved into quiet murmurs she could only scarcely make out. Her heart broke as she listened to the desperate pleas. She had never heard anyone in so much pain and she had never felt so helpless to do anything about it.

They could not give him additional sedatives with his current medication, but she found herself wishing they could as his head tipped back. Visually it looked as though he was still trying to scream at the top of his lungs, but his voice had already become too hoarse to make any notable sound.

"No change?"

Mackenzie jumped at the sudden voice behind her. She moved her arms back to her side as she realized she had been hugging herself.

"None at all," she replied.

The concern in her eyes only deepened when she turned to look at Doctor Fuller. There was a deep bruise coloring the side of his face and bandaging on his throat. It was much worse than she remembered.

"What about you?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine." He made a vague motion towards the injuries. "Eddie didn't do this. I only tripped over a chair when he shoved me. This.…"

Doctor Fuller trailed off for a moment, looking unsettled. Mackenzie would be concerned, but as she moved her eyes back to Eddie's struggle, she knew that the same expression was written across her face.

"It wasn't at all like Alex," Doctor Fuller said when he spoke again. "This is something else entirely. I saw no anger in him, only fear. Frankly, I don't even believe he saw me."

Mackenzie sighed, her arms again crossed protectively over her chest. It was a struggle to remain detached listening to the patient's pained whimpers. "How can he still be having episodes on this medication?"

"That's what I came to discuss. I conferred with some of my colleagues regarding this newer medication. We have had nothing but success with it here, and as you know, it has been highly regarded in the clinical trials, but at several of the other hospitals they encountered rather notable negative reactions in some patients."

"I would say this goes beyond a negative reaction."

"Indeed," Doctor Fuller agreed. "This is unexpected. No one has reported a case this severe, but the general consensus is that with some individuals, if the medication is administered in the absence of schizophrenia the drugs may severely magnify other existing trauma."

"You think it is a misdiagnosis?"

"I was speaking with some of the orderlies and they seemed to feel that the restraints are triggering a reaction in him. When he attacked me, I was attempting to hold him down."

"Aside from calling for Sam, he's been pleading with someone named Alastair. Do you think..."

"Past abuse could manifest in any number of ways, Alex's anger and Eddie's terror. It could also explain their severe codependency."

Her lips pressed into a grim line as Eddie's hoarse cries again dissolved into pleas. "Oh god...what was done to him?"

"I can't even begin to guess. Post traumatic stress to this degree..." The doctor shook his head. "Let's just hope that PTSD too is an incorrect diagnosis. Regardless, I'm immediately discontinuing the current medication. I feel that not doing so would put his life at greater risk than the side effects of stopping it. We need to get him out of those restraints as soon as it is reasonably safe to do so."

Everything was just out of focus, like looking through a frosted windshield. In theory, he knew the road was there, but he had to struggle to make out the lane markers and he could just forget about reading the road signs. Dean had tried giving his eyes time to adjust, but he finally decided his eyes weren't the problem.

He could see everything around him clear enough, if anything his vision of the stark room was a little too clear, but his brain couldn't process what his eyes were seeing, or anything else for that matter. His thoughts were slow, disconnected and it was frustrating as hell. Just trying to hold onto a thought long enough to think it was damn near impossible.

His eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling despite hating the brightness of the lights bombarding him. There was nothing up there except more white. He thought about turning his head, but the thought didn't quite reach the cramped muscles in his neck.

Vaguely he was aware that someone was watching him. In the back of his mind it occurred to him that he should be on alert, but he couldn't think of why. Holding on to consciousness was enough work. There were bad things, but they were everywhere, that much he could remember. He was too tired to fight everything.

At some point he managed to shift his position. He had only started to move when out of the corner of his vision he saw two figures rushing in. The primal portion of his brain that was still present and accounted for screamed for him to scramble up and defend himself. He was about to make a sloppy effort of it when he noticed the woman that was already by his side.

Calmly she raised a hand towards the men that he distantly recognized as orderlies. Dean expected the orderlies to fly backwards and be pinned to the wall, but they just stopped where they were. No one was thrown and when the woman looked down at him her eyes weren't the inky pools of black Dean had expected to see.

"You're all right, sweetie. Just relax," she told him in one of the most obscenely reassuring voices he had ever heard. The tone reminded him of Mom. Nothing looked or felt all right, but somehow he actually believed her.

It took another couple of minutes to adjust to being awake enough that he could really see her. The view was a hell of a lot better than the ceiling. She was older than him, but not by too much. Her brown hair had an auburn sheen and her eyes were bright and gentle. She had a body fine enough that he would have bought her a drink under different circumstances.

As it was he was apparently still a patient in a mental hospital and by her unflattering uniform he was going to take a wild ass guess and say that she was his nurse. Not that he had anything against nurses, not by a long shot, but the whole mental patient thing was a tad awkward. It wasn't like he could even deny the fact he was nuts.

"You're going to have to take it easy, Eddie. We have you on a new anti anxiety medication. It's pretty strong and you're going to be a little dizzy and disoriented for a while, okay?"

There was nothing okay about that. He didn't take medication. Pain meds if there was real need, sure, but there was no way that he was taking any damn Prozac. That was what whiskey was for. Obviously this nurse had his chart mixed up with someone else's.

"Look..."

Dean's attempt to set her straight fell off before it started. He didn't recognize the sound of his own voice. It was scratchy and quiet even though he had tried to speak in a normal tone.

Slowly he began to register just how raw his throat was. He must be sick, but not like she was thinking. For a moment he tried to conjure up enough saliva to coat his painfully dry throat and ease the aching, but it was a lost cause.

"I know you're trying to help and I appreciate that, I do," he continued in as strong of a voice as he could manage, "but I'm not crazy. I don't need any medication."

"You have been experiencing incredibly severe anxiety attacks. Do you remember that?"

Dean looked away and swallowed hard despite the pain in his throat. He remembered every last second of it. He just hadn't known what was happening. It had been far more vivid than any dream and the dreams were vivid enough. He had been back there again. Still. Part of him was always there.

"Has that ever happened before?" she asked gently.

"I don't have panic attacks." The tone was more defensive than it needed to be, but nurse didn't blink.

"You were very upset. Do you remember grabbing Doctor Fuller?"

Dean's brow furrowed as he searched his muddled mind. He didn't understand what she was asking and a look of utter confusion crossed his face.

"Do you remember fighting someone?"

He had fought Alistair and it couldn't have been a real memory from the pit because that had never happened. Never had he actually had the strength to do what he was remembering having done. If he had, the world would be a lot better off now.

"Yeah. I guess..." he replied hoarsely. "I thought...is the Doc okay?"

"Don't you worry, he's fine. Who were you fighting?"

Slowly things were beginning to come back into focus and it didn't bring the relief he had been hoping for. His thoughts might be slowed, but it just meant that each excruciating memory lingered all the longer.

"Long story." He cut her off before she could say anything further, "I know you got all the time in the world, this is what they pay you for, but me, I'm out of time. Got a world to save."

"Before you save anyone else you need to take care of yourself."

"Great line for a fortune cookie, but not exactly an option."

"Don't you think you deserve to be taken care of?"

Dean flashed his bloodshot eyes up, looking at her like she was the crazy one. This woman had no idea the things he had done. Worse, she didn't know the things he could imagine doing to her right now with just that pen sticking out of her pocket. He could feel hell nipping just below the surface, far too exposed already, leaving Alastair's lessons in the forefront of his mind. The deviant visuals flashing through his head were proof enough that he sure as hell didn't deserve to be taken care of.

"I just gotta get out of here."

"And that's exactly what we want to help you to do, but there are some things I need you to tell me before we can get you out of here. Maybe they are not panic attacks, but do you ever have flashbacks - any kind of unusually vivid memories of a traumatic event? This could happen when you are awake or asleep..."

She was fishing for things that he had no intention of discussing. He didn't even know what he could say and the fuzzy feeling in his head was just dampening his ability to think at all. He settled on saying nothing.

The nurse pursed her lips, but nodded. Her expression was so understanding that it made him uncomfortable. She didn't understand and she damn well wouldn't be looking at him like that if she knew what he'd done, what he was capable of doing.

"You don't have to tell me what happened, but it is critical that we know whether or not this is a preexisting condition. You don't even have to say yes. If this has never happened before just tell me no."

Dean couldn't honestly deny it, but he wasn't going to say it out loud either. Again he settled on saying nothing at all. It hurt less not to talk anyway.

"Would you consider the attacks..." She caught herself and Dean realized that she was just playing semantic games to get him to fess up. "These flashbacks or nightmares, would you consider them to be debilitating?"

"Life sucks," Dean replied. "What do you want me to say?"

"You could start with the truth."

"I get by."

"You don't have any problems with sleep disruption or substance abuse?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm dealing."

"There are things we can do to improve the quality of your life. We can help make it easier, help you to recover."

She had no idea what this thing inside him was. It wasn't something that could be forgotten or talked through. No words, no medication, no period of time – nothing short of an empty abyss of nothing swallowing him whole was going to make this go away. It was a part of him. Forever.

"You can't help me. No one can."

-o-o-o-

The girl was already screaming. He hadn't even touched her and her cries were already tearing at his ears, her pleas battering what was left of his broken soul. Idly he wondered how far out of his way Alistair had gone to find such a gorgeous body. He wondered if in life the girl had even looked anything like the stunning blonde splayed out on the rack in front of him.

Dean imagined that her tear reddened eyes would have sparkled blue if they were anywhere else, but there was no blue here, nothing but red and black. He wondered if the assaulting smell of sizzling flesh that had by now become mundane was what his mom had smelled when she had burned. More than anything he just wondered how quickly he could shut this bitch up.

"It's not so hard as you think," Alistair assured him.

The demon he'd become so intimately familiar with over the decades stood directly beside him. Alistair was practically leaning into him, breathing down his neck, just daring him to screw this up. After a seeming eternity of being nothing more than a chunk of meat to be carved, Dean had a chance at reclaiming control.

"There's plenty worse things," the demon beside him continued.

The hot steel of Alistair's razor nicked the edge of Dean's cheekbone, crimson streaked down unnoticed. He scarcely even felt what might as well have been a tender touch, but mentally it was reminder enough of the control he would sacrifice by backing down.

His eyes remained locked on the tear stained face of the wailing girl in front of him. He reminded himself that good people didn't get shoved down the pit. It wasn't like she could be as helpless and innocent as she looked. She could have killed someone. Maybe she been a prostitute or had sworn too much in Sunday school...maybe she'd made a deal for her little brother who was dying of leukemia.

Abruptly he turned away from her, tried to shut her screaming out. Just a few well placed deep slices of the blade and she would be silent. If only he could slit his own throat instead. If only all it would take was one clean slice ear to ear to just end this.

A taunting sneer pulled his focus, Alistair's fingers playing along the razor's edge as if bored. "If you think you need some more lessons first..."

Dean's eyes were as cold as the steel he was demanding when he held his hand out to Alistair. "Give me the damn razor, you son of a bitch."

"That's my boy."

The next time the crimson flowed it wasn't his.

Bile burned the back of his throat. He tried once to swallow it down, but was too disoriented. Everything was different than it had been just a moment earlier. The embers had gone dark and the ringing silence engulfing him was as deafening as the screams had been.

Somehow he had ended up lying on his stomach, somewhere soft. A bed. He didn't have time to think about it before he awkwardly pushed himself up just enough to find the edge of the bed and empty his stomach onto the floor. He was cold again, shivering violently as he heaved.

His chest hurt with how fast his heart was pounding and his head swam. He collapsed back onto the bed and curled into himself, but it didn't help because inside himself was the last place he wanted to be right now. Somewhere a lamp clicked on and he clenched his eyes shut against the sudden burst of light in the blackness.

"Oh...I'll get someone in here to clean it up," a voice said.

Dean rolled onto his back, his hand drying his wetted lashes as he wiped his mouth clean against the sleeve of his shirt. He had thought he was alone and wished he was. It was too much to try to hold it together with someone watching. While he couldn't quite open his eyes yet, he tried to force his rapid breath to slow as he finally found the words to answer.

"No. I got it," Dean rasped. "I'm not a freakin' two year old."

"You don't have to do that, we have room service. They don't let us keep towels in the room anyway." Dean's brow knitted and he felt a hand on his arm. "Wow. You're shaking really bad...I'm going to get some help in here."

"No." He tried to sit up to prove he was fine but his body too weak and he ended up face planting back onto the pillow. "Damn it!" His fist pounded the mattress before he rolled back onto his side, facing away from the man at his bedside. "I'm fine," he gritted through clenched teeth. "Just leave me alone. Please."

"Dean, it's okay."

"Martin?" Dean's eyes shot open, looking over his shoulder to see the man worriedly hovering over him. "What are you doing here?" Dean asked. Slowly he rolled back onto his back and raised his brows as he looked around the room. "Better question, what am I doing here?"

"Hey boy, you look even worse than last time I saw you," Martin said as he helped Dean to sit up on the bed. "The doctors thought it might help if you had a friend. Where's Sam?"

"I don't know...not here. He got out."

"So you decided to stay for a while?" Martin asked. "It's not a bad idea...believe me, I know how this job can break you down, but...what happened to you? Was it the wraith?"

"No..." Dean hesitated for a moment, but the fact was he was too exhausted to lie. "It was hell."

"It sure feels like sometimes that doesn't it?"

"No. I mean I was in hell. Down in the pit, but I was fine until they doped me up and now everything's..." He brought his hand up to try to rub the ache out his pounding head.

"Is this the medications talking? I mean you weren't really in hell...right? No one comes back from hell."

"Yeah, well, most people don't have angels riding their ass."

Dean realized that Martin had spent years listening to crazy stories in the nut house and his sounded like just another one, even to his own ears. He didn't know why it even mattered whether or not Martin believed him. Maybe it was just because he was starting to wonder if he really was losing his mind for real. He rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt and turned his shoulder for Martin to see the handprint branded there.

The man's eyes went wide. "Oh...wow. Angel?" Dean let his sleeve fall back down and just nodded as Martin plopped back down on the bed beside him. "So hell?"

"Yeah."

"Oh kid..."

"Don't break out the tissues on my account. Thanks to me this whole sorry world's going to hell." Martin just looked over at him with a puzzled expression. "Did I mention I started the apocalypse while I was downstairs?"

"No...you didn't, but I'm sure it was an accident," Martin offered as if the statement was even marginally helpful.

"Sure. It'll make a whole hell of a lot of difference when the entire damn planet is burning. The real kick in the ass is that I'm the only one that can stop it."

"How?"

"Damned if I know. Between you and me, if I'm really the last hope, the world is so screwed. I just gotta get out of here. I don't have time for all this healing crap."

By the way Martin was looking him over and shaking his head Dean realized that he must look at least half as bad as he felt.

"Maybe you could just take a little more time," Martin suggested.

"Wouldn't do any good. I'm just gonna die again anyway."

-o-o-o-

Eddie was sitting up in the bed. He was more alert than Mackenzie had yet seen him, if anything he now seemed anxious. His eyes kept searching the room, but he wouldn't tell her what he was looking for. She watched his unsteady fingers fidget with his hospital bracelet as he impassively answered her questions.

"Do you ever have thoughts of death or dying?" she asked.

"Like 'Stairway to Heaven' or 'Highway to Hell' kind of dying?" The words were spoken casually, but there was nothing causal about the expression on his face when he finally looked over to her. When she just met his eyes, he shook his head. "Nah."

She gave him a skeptical look, crossing her legs and leaning slightly forward in her chair. He looked away.

"Never?" she asked again.

He was quiet for a long moment before dismissively replying, "Just every other minute."

By the weight of the tone that carried it, she knew it wasn't the throw away line that he wanted her to believe that it was. She leaned back slightly to give him more space before continuing, "Have you ever considered ending your own life?"

He let out a sardonic chuckle. "Man, I wish it was that easy."

She set her notebook aside on the bedside table and folded her hands over her lap. "Eddie, everything you are experiencing is completely normal."

"Yeah..." He shot her a quick glance before returning to visually searching the room. "I appreciated that, sweetheart, but there's nothing normal about my life."

"Your loss of interest, feelings of detachment, hopelessness. No sense of a real future. Does any of this sound familiar?"

"Not all of us have a future."

"You're a young man, your life's still just beginning."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "I sure as hell hope that ain't true."

"If you're not ready to talk about it, that's all right, but Eddie, we need to know if you experienced a particularly traumatic event. Maybe you were a soldier...or maybe someone hurt you..."

He chuckled again, but not in a way that suggested he thought there was anything legitimately funny about the conversation. That it was just a coping mechanism was obvious by the uncomfortable way he shifted on the bed and the way he refused to look at her. He had even stopped scanning the room.

"I died," he replied after a long moment of silence. "Does that count?"

Mackenzie shook her head at him. "I'm serious."

"Me too."

When his hazel eyes did again meet hers the intensity in them made her breath catch in her throat. He may be confused, but she had no doubt that he believed what he was saying. It was a start. They could deal with this how he wanted to. If cover stories made it easier for him than she could work with that.

"Was it violent?"

Eddie cocked a brow at her question. "My death?"

"That's right. Tell me how you died."

He looked away again, tensing his jaw. She watched his eyes, they moved to the right as he thought then closed tightly for the briefest moment before he was able to recover his game face. It was obvious that he had a great deal of practice pretending to be all right, but she had seen him, heard him, in that bed before the medication had worn off. She knew the pain he was carrying inside was unbearable.

Mackenzie had become so lost in her observations that she hadn't realized that despite his distance, he was studying her too. She imagined that he was trying to decide whether or not he could trust her. Finally he nodded.

"Okay. Hellhounds. Ripped me apart. Dragged me to hell. Is it lunchtime yet? I'm really in the mood for some more Jell-O."

"Why would you be taken to hell? Was it something you did?"

"I've done plenty." The reply came instantly, too fast, and she waited because there was obviously something else he needed to say. "Sold my soul."

"What was worth your soul?"

"My brother."

The answer was pure conviction. Doctor Fuller had explained the strangely close dynamic between Eddie and Alex. Just by the tone of Eddie's reply she could see that the doctor had not been understating their bond. His brother was the first thing Eddie had talked about with any real emotion and she could use that.

"How can you look after him if you're dead?" she asked.

"He died. I couldn't...I had to get him back."

"So you sold your soul, were taken to hell and somehow you came back, but what about now?"

His determined look turned bewildered. "What?"

"You're ready to die, but you care so much about looking after your brother that you would go to hell for him. If you die, won't that leave Alex alone?"

"I'm not looking for a way out." Uneasily, he ran his hand over his face. "I'm just tired and Sam, he can..."

"Sam?"

"My brother..." His mouth hung open for a moment as he realized his apparent slip, quickly he tried to correct himself. "Alex...uh. Alex Samuel...it's kind of a family thing."

At least now a few things were beginning to make sense. "You were calling for him."

"Yeah...maybe I was."

He shrugged it off like it was nothing, but no one called for someone with that intensity without it meaning a great deal. For him to be suffering that much and believe that Sam could help him implied that saying Eddie was dependent on Sam was a monumental understatement. If his name even was Eddie.

"During one of your episodes you told us your name was Dean. Is that a 'family' name too?"

"Something like that."

"Is that what I should be calling you?"

"You can call me whatever you want." He seemed to be considering just what he did want her to call him before he continued speaking. "But my name's Dean."

"It suits you. And Alistair?" she asked carefully. "Who is he?"

He closed his eyes tightly as if trying to shut something out. The pace of his breathing increased, becoming rapid, a grimace marring his features. His hands clenched the sheets tightly in his fists.

"Dean, come on back, sweetie. You're safe."

She cautiously set a gentle hand on top of his in such a way that it could not be perceived as restraint. With a glance towards the orderly at the door, she prepared to move back quickly if she had to, but there was no need. Dean startled, his frantic eyes opened and darted around the room again but he made no other movement. If anything his body was unusually still as his eyes settled on the mattress of his bed.

"What's happening to me?"

The words were spoken so softly that she could barely hear them and she realized he had only been speaking aloud to himself. He was obviously used to dealing with this alone. He was also used to hiding it, that much she could tell by the neutral mask he had forced onto his face before looking back at her.

"Your brain is trying to cope with the shifts in medication. It is exasperating existing symptoms, but it's not creating them. Where did you go just now?"

"Hell."

There was a reluctance in his eyes, but his answer was apparently an honest one, at least for how he perceived his suffering.

"So these flashback and nightmares – they're about what Alastair did to you?"

"Some of them."

"What about the other ones?"

Dean shifted on the bed, again starting to look for distractions in the empty room. She let the silence hang in the air, already having picked up on his need to fill the quietness. It was not long before he spoke.

"This has been real enlightening, but I think it's past my naptime."

"What could be worse than what Alastair did to you?" she tried again.

"You're not leaving are you?"

"No, I'm not."

"Awesome. Can I get a new room then?" She smiled softly and shook her head. "It was worth a try." There was a pained shift in his eyes before he answered quietly, "I hurt people too."

She was willing to play along with his hell scenario, but she didn't believe for one minute that he had hurt anyone, not intentionally at least. But the silent torment in his eyes and the shame in his voice said that he believed it.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm weak. I just wanted it to stop. I didn't even care as long as it wasn't me."

"I don't know what happened to you, but I've seen for myself that you're far from weak and if you didn't care it wouldn't be destroying you like this."

"Yeah, well, being sorry about this...it's a band aid to a pointblank head shot. I already screwed it all up. I started this and I don't know how I'm gonna stop it. Everyone's counting on me...what am I supposed to do?"

She knew from what little information that they had on him, that he admitted himself and his brother with a story about starting the apocalypse. Mackenzie could only assume that was what he was referring to now. By the naked desperation in his voice it seemed that he honestly believed he had started the end of the world and was now responsible for finding a way to stop it.

"If you stop this...if you stop the apocalypse, then your pain will go away?"

His expressive eyes seemed to be telling her that it was a ridiculous question. She thought he was going to tell her that there was no such thing as an apocalypse, but that apparently wasn't what he found to be so ridiculous.

"This isn't about me. It's just about what I gotta do. That's why I need you to just patch me up and let me go."

"You want us to just slap a band aid on that gaping head wound?" He gave her a look somewhere between frustration and mild amusement.

"Now you're getting it."

"And no matter what, even if you save everyone, there's no saving yourself?" His tightly clenched jaw and averted eyes were confirmation enough. "Maybe it's time to let someone else save you."


End file.
